


Assorted poetries

by EyesWatchingUs



Category: Original Work
Genre: Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-15 12:07:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28563249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EyesWatchingUs/pseuds/EyesWatchingUs
Collections: Eye’s Original Works





	1. Chapter 1

We look at the alligator skull in the museum.

“What does an alligator skull mean?” I turn and ask him.

“Patience. Learning to live with it. Grounded and flowing like water”

“I didn’t know that.”

“It’s too close, isn’t it?”

I fiddle at his words in my head. I wonder if I will learn to live with my spirials. 

“You have a strong back.” He notes. I think about choking him to death. I don’t want to choke him to death. I am terrified I am going to choke him to death. I think about choking him to death.

“I’m not sure I want to be strong.”

“You have to be, to live with the weight.”

“Do I have to live?”

“No. But living feels much better than just surviving.”

He turns to me, sharply soft, pleadingly demanding.

“Look at me.”

I look at him.

“You bite your own hands.”

“...yes.”

“I can see the serrated semicircles. You’re hungry.”

“I don’t want to eat you.”

“You don’t have to eat me to eat. Hands aren’t meant for biting.” 

“I don’t know what I eat.”

“Hm?”

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to eat. I eat at my hands because I know I can sink my teeth in and take it away.”

“What have you tried to eat? Other than your hands.”

“I haven’t tried. I don’t want to get sick.”

“You’re already sick.”

I feel the weight in my lungs, the bile of my thighs and hands and thoughts.

“Not like that.”

“What do you mean?”

“It never stops, does it?”

I feel the warmth and the weight of his hands sliding up my ribs and towards my shoulder blades like a xylophone. 

“It never stops.” I mutter as I curl forward into my hearth and home. His body’s warmth is comforting in the way I know I can say no to him. He blankets me, pressing into the sharp shapes I’ve grown into with his own soft curves. He swirls his finger lazily on my strong back.

“It never stops.” He repeats. 

The alligator skull watches.


	2. Bleach

An alligator skull stares at me. 

“It never ends.” I repeat, my hand soft and my brain sharp with all it’s sharded thoughts broken and warping around the bend of some great spiral I have yet to see. 

Bleached white bones and bleach white skin, paler than then, shaded by greys and jovielent yellows vibrant and screaming like Gabriel’s horn right before it all ends, in a fiery explosion. 

God. I don’t believe in a god that is separate from my own shattered eyesights from multiple points of view. I ramble and scrawl all my thoughts and it’s never enough to out race the endless consumption of all. 

We are still hungry, I am still hungry. I apologize for everything I’ve ever said, all that I’ve bled out onto paper, onto skin, onto teeth. I think about the keratin of fingernails and how desperately I wish to be touched. I made myself untouchable so that nobody could hurt me ever again, but I still yearn for it. 

The pain and the touch and the sheer connection of venting and talking and rambling to an unforcing face, I can’t see your face, I can’t read your face, nobody out of my age range can read my face right. 

Nothing feels right anymore, I am so small in such a large world and it crushes me how the weight of it all is still not enough for me. I wish other people could see my struggles and I don’t want them to worry about me because forcing others to care lest you die is incredibly cruel. 

I want to be held by someone I can say no to. I crave it desperately. I crave the warmth and the weight. I feel sick again, I always feel sick around this time. I enjoy the cold and I wish it snowed. Bleached powder colder than I’ve ever been to you. 

I love you. My home, my hearth, my bones, my teeth, my flesh, my soul, my loved one. You are the spine that keeps me upright and sewn tight. You need not fear reaping what you’ve sown in me. 


	3. Spinal Discs

They say you are a completely new person every seven years. As in, every cell of your body has replaced itself. We were 12, so at 19, we will have a body that was never touched. Funny innt? That I still feel the bile. Funny in a cruel way. Funny in the way that you could only joke about it with others like you. That sort of funny. 

I’m bitter. It’s sweet. It’s incredibly bittersweet that the age our mother birthed us is the age we won’t have been tainted anymore. I still feel the hands. I still crave keratin and enamel. Baby teeth. Baby steps. My adult teeth are sharp and crooked like me. 

I am a sharp and angry man-child and I’m still learning when to bite. I am so hungry but I have no idea for what. My nails are trimmed short. I no longer need to defend myself. 

So why does my body not understand that? Nobody knows what happened to me and if they did, they wouldn’t tell me. I pretend nothing happened sometimes, the cruel irony of my internal actions not lost on my soul and spine. 

The spinal disks, spiralless, self contained, contain my thoughts and electric movements. I am all nerves and keratin and enamel, armoured and yet so sensitive. The keratin and enamel grind against each other, grind against me, grind me down. My flesh is so easy to tear and thus ensues malice circling, spiraling around me like a vulture, so easy to spot and yet so hard to defend. Blood is a thick liquid, thicker than the water of the womb. Commiserating with communists lends to my sense of odd one out as I curl protectively around the young, then uncurl as I realize I am much more harmful than any vulture with my bullheaded staminous steaming teeth and marching arms and legs and spines. 

Spinal cords connecting to long lost histories and future discourse blends it all together. I am heavily corded, weighted by my connections and my innermost intrusive thoughts. I play another disk.

Every day I wake up and I distract myself from my own thoughts and I think about the next day and I think about tomorrow and I stop thinking and I go blank and transient when I hear old noises I used to hear back when I heard them, then I play another spinal disk.

The spinal disks loop and stack, playing the same things over and over and over and over and i am thrown into a sense of false deja vu and I dare not look up and i dare not look away from the endless gaping maw of eternity, of immortality, of bleeding ink until you drown in the spinal fluid until you gasp for air in a different body, in a different time, in a different situation.

I feel visceral and tearing flesh. I feel manic. I feel my crooked, sharp teeth are the only aware part of me. I feel empty. I feel desperately hungry like I’m dying, like I will die if I am not loved. I go feral. 

Bark. I go feral. I see the dappled forest floor and it reminds me of home. I wish I knew where my home is. I wish the house I live in could be one, safe and unresenting. 

I go soft like crumpled paper underwater when I think of those who love me and how they make me feel.

I would open my skin for them. Let them curl inside my ribcage, allow them to use my organs as pillows, my skin as a blanket, and then, to fall asleep inside of me. I would trust my loved ones to move my intestines gently, to hold my spleen with care, and to press soft kisses to my heart. 

I would protect them with my body. I would sheath them in bone and keratin. I would wrap my organs around them to encase them in warmth. I would let them borrow my lungs to breathe. 

The point here, I suppose, is I love with my hands, and lust with my teeth. 

I’ve thought around and into that point many times. It’s another stop on my spiral. 


	4. The Ocean of Unflinching

There was a tsunami.

I was standing waist deep when it went out.

It came back in weeks later.

I lost my senses. Then, the ocean spoke to me in the way only it can.

“I am the collector and collection of self. 

You are a part of me the same way your siblings are a part of me. You are tide pools on our beach. I touch and become you and you become you.

One day your harsh rock walls will be worn away by my tides and you will become a part of me and the series of choices and traits you attribute to your ‘identity’ will dissipate into salt in my water.

A lesser man would say that the tides are a series of flinches. 

You may not see it now. Denial is your shield and you wield it effectively. It has protected you for many years, and you cling to its safety.

I am unflinched. You will become me by eventually unflinching every fear and tattered memory.

I see and love you, not as a foreign object, but as a part of my body.”

I stood waist deep as it subsided.

I understand now, why some yearn for unflinching and fail. 

It’s in every step. Every single step unflinches a small amount, but some think it possible to wake up and unflinch everything in one step.

Flinching is part of unflinching. It’s even in the words.

I think some people think that it’s impossible to unflinch again after falling down a few steps, when that just means you’ve fallen down a few steps. Falling doesn’t make it harder. You’ve still got the muscle memory.


End file.
